


Had We But World Enough, and Time...

by AceQueenKing



Category: Star Wars Original Trilogy
Genre: Brief mentions of Physical Violence/Death, Imperial Culture, Imperial Officers, M/M, Outer Rim Culture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-01
Updated: 2018-12-01
Packaged: 2019-08-24 08:00:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,241
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16635995
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AceQueenKing/pseuds/AceQueenKing
Summary: Piett is taken captive by a pirate who knows of his past.





	Had We But World Enough, and Time...

**Author's Note:**

  * For [coachnikiforov](https://archiveofourown.org/users/coachnikiforov/gifts).



Piett smiled through cracked teeth as Naborkov slapped him across the mouth. It stung, but Piett held little fear. Naborkov was a pirate of the lowest sort. He need only hold out until the Executor came.

“Where is it?” Naborkov hissed. He was losing his patience, but Piett wasn’t bothered. He did not know what sort of Jedi or Sith artifact that Vader had been sent to retrieve, and even if he had known, he would not tell. Naborkov's anger was nothing compared to his commanders, and he had little doubt that Vaser was coming for him.

Vader never let anyone take what was his.

“Admiral Firmus Piett,” he said, his S's hissing through his cracked teeth. He was not looking forward to regrowing them; bacta in his mouth always made his gums itch. “Imperial Id #204943. Axxillian.”

“Hmph.” The pirate smacked Piett around the head again, this time with enough force that his eyes momentarily blurred from the sting of it. He wondered if Naborkov was Axxillian as well; the wide nose and short jacket was common enough among his people. It reminded him of the remnants of the CIE military uniform. His mother had had one like that once, though she had found a way to wash hers every once in a while, before the end. Naborkov’s was matted with dirt.

But then pirates so rarely cared about their hygiene.

“You have balls, Imp,” Naborkov said. He smiled, his brown eyes alight with a horrible fury. “Perhaps if you don't start talking, I’ll put one in a jar and mail it to the Emperor himself.”

Piett chuckled, amused by the idea of it. He had little doubt the Emperor would have no convictions over such a gift. He looked up at Naborkov, grinning. Goading him might get Piett hurt, but it would occupy the pirate all the same and delay was now the name of his game, at least until Vader came to collect him. The more the pirate was occupied with Piett, the more likely the Lady Executor’s crew would get whatever the Empire required and get back to him before he died.

“Admital Firmus Piett,” he shouted. “Imperial Id #204943. Axxillian.”

Naborkov's face grew brighter red. “I know who you are, Admiral Firmus Piett. Around here you have another title, you know, pirate killer: _nekaja_.”

Piett raised his eyebrows. So he had been right; Naborkov was from his homeland. And perhaps even closer still…Nekaja was a unique insult; it roughly translated to _kinslayer_ in basic, though there were added layers of Axxilian judgment that didn’t quite make it to that translation: _s_ _afety-stealer; child-taker._ He took as close a look at the man as his blurry eyes would allow him. Perhaps his capture had been more purposeful than he thought; he had thought it was mere chance, his being grabbed at the spaceport while he had been waiting for the Executor to refill on needded provisions. Now he thought there was far more to it.

He narrowed his eyes, trying to focus on the pirate. Underneath the filth, he could see familiar hooded eyes, much like his own. But Naborkov's hair was wilder, more unhinged; that had never been a hallmark of the Piett clan. It had to be one of his mother’s side. Perhaps one of the aunties’ children: probably Draxila, judging by the raven hair.

“Now you see, _nethhaus_ ,” Naborkov gloated; definitively one of Draxila's kin, he could see his aunt's cruel smile in Naborkov's mouth. Draxila had remained at Axxila, he remembered that smile from the spaceport, smirking over his mother's cowardice, so certain of a CIE triumph that had never come to pass. “How do you feel, knowing you’ve been playing against kin and kind, imperial admiral Piett, #204943?”

He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, and in the stillness of that charged moment, he heard it. Blaster cannons. The Executor's guns at that; he could hear that loud thrum from the front firing canon; they'd not stayed in star dock long enough to replace the thermal drum.

And if the _Executor_ was here…He opened his eyes and shot Naborkov a deadly grin. “I am Admiral Piett, Imperial ID #204943, from Axxila… _nethhaus_.”

The pirate stared at him with a dark and violent fury, his hands gripping the strap tightly. “So be it, _nethaus_ ,” he said, finally. But at the point, it was too late – Piett could hear the familiar precision-fire and screams of Vader’s 501st, along with the breathing that heralded the arrival of the man himself. Naborkov had run out of time. “I will tell aunt Martesa you died with your boots on.”

He reached out with the strap, the leather coming close to Piett’s neck, close enough to taste the earthy smell of genuine shaak-leather, but a red flash of light removed it from his vision a second after it touched his neck. Piett looked down. Naborkov’s hand was on the ground, neatly cauterized by the saber. Naborkov looked up at him, bitterness in his eyes, but he didn’t move away. Piett took advantage, headbutting the pirate.  

Vader entered the room, all storm and fire, and grabbed the pirate as he reeled backward. The lightsaber was recalled, and Piett looked away from what came next. He heard it ignite and saw the hint of light, and then a heavy and final thud.

“Are you injured?” Vader asked, concern coming through despite the mechanical tones of the vocoder. “Has this  _thief_ — “

“Like most pirates, he was incompetent.” He smiled and was satisfied to see Vader’s fist clench when he saw his mangled teeth. “A few whippings, not much else.”

“As pathetic as they are greedy,” Vader intoned. His gaze moved to the former pirate and then back to Piett, saying nothing for a long moment. He wondered if Vader was able to see the obvious resemblance between them, but if he did, he let it pass unsaid, of which Piett was grateful.

Instead, Vader strode over the body. With a delicate touch Piett wouldn’t have suspected he’d had when he’d first come under Vader’s command, Vader untied his restraints. Piett stumbled forward and was caught by his superior officer; for strictly a moment longer than was proper, Vader held him close. He could hear the warm beat of that heart — one of the few things about Vader that wasn’t mechanical—before he was put back on his own two feet. He nodded and smiled, just slightly, before the mask Piett was forced to wear as His Majesty’s Admiral slammed back into place.

Sometimes, he thought Vader might have it a bit easier with the physical mask.

“Can you walk?”  Vader intoned; the question wasn’t loaded, and Piett knew there’d be little push-back if he’d waited for a stretcher. Ozzel would have demanded one by now, but then that was why Ozzel was dead and why Piett was Admiral of the flagship, now.

“I’d prefer to,” Piett said quietly. Vader’s clap on his back for the briefest of seconds was the only response, but it was the correct one.

Piett forced himself not to blush as his arrival was greeted by the returning stormtrooper soldiers with a loud and triumphant _ooo-rah!_    that was almost so-deafening that he barely noticed the remains of the pirates underfoot.

***

There were many, many rules to the Empire, but decorum was one above all else. Which was why when Vader dismissed him to his personal quarters, it was an egregious break in decorum that would have even the Emperor’s unflappable eyebrows fully upturned.

Fortuitously, the _Executor_ was Vader’s lady first and foremost, Piett’s second, and their reclusive Emperor Eternal a very, very distant third.

Piett, however, was thankful; sparing him an eternity asking questions in medbay was all the proof he’d ever have of Vader truly caring for him. And thankfully Vader had more medical tech at his disposal in his private quarters than perhaps even the Emperor. He sighed as one of Vader’s personal medibots wordlessly applied bacta to his teeth; it would be hours of itching.

Another repaired his ribs, and a third was assessing the damaged blood vessels in his face. He closed his eyes and submitted to their procedures; he was mentally exhausted. One of the medibots wordlessly presented him with a knock-out pill, which he accepted all too gladly.

When he awoke, he was in bacta, and he and he groaned in frustration at having not slept through the worst of it. Stars, his mouth itched something _awful_. Vader hadn’t come back yet — which was typical, the Empire’s second in command had the workload of seventeen admirals — which left him alone to his thoughts.

Which he did not, entirely, want. Naborkov’s ghost kept a hand on his shoulder, and he was frustrated by that; he did not feel guilt, exactly, for the man’s death, though it was regrettable what his cousin had been reduced to. What bothered him more was the thought that he had missed that fate by mere inches in the tapestry of history: a group of Pietts had gone, a group of Naborkovs had stayed. If Piett’s family had stayed, would it be him who was still wearing a long-dead military’s jacket, clutching vengeance and platitudes to his chest?

The bot lifted him out of the bacta, allowing him to breathe without the horrible rebreather — force, did he have pity for Vader in that — and he sucked a harsh and uncertain breath of stale, long-refreshed air. Vader had not allowed the ship to remain in drydock, which meant they’d be breathing this for another few months. Oh well; nothing to be done. Considering it had saved his life, Piett couldn’t feel too badly over the decision.

He put on his uniform and stumbled over to the coach; his home away from his own quarters, given that he could never join Vader in his hyperbaric chamber long. Even after the baacta nap, he felt exhausted, too consumed with the many paths he’d never taken, never had the choice to take.  

“You are pensive,” Vader said, and he glanced toward the door; Vader came in, putting his long cloak on a wire.

“Thinking about the Outer Rim,” he said; Vader nodded, wordlessly moving to the kitchenette to prepare what he suspected was going to be a cup of tea. Desert boys, he thought with a scoff; they were all the same. Nothing that wouldn’t be fixed by water in some property or another. “How little separates us from the chaff.”

Vader said nothing, and he wondered, not the first time, whether Vader regretted being picked up by the Jedi all those years ago. He knew little of Vader’s background beyond that he was a slave — the collar scaring spoke of that, though Vader did not — and a Jedi. There were some silences between them that were companionable enough Piett did not dare to trespass.

“Luck, I think,” he shouted; Vader offered no response. “Just…opportunities. I suppose I should be thankful. But all I can think about are those pirates. Do you suppose, if they had been born in the Empire, that they’d be here?”

Vader, again, said nothing, but sat across from him, sliding the cup his way. It was tea — an aromatic blend that smelled of spiced _chuffrah_ and the earthy scent of indefatigable _mousli_. It was nothing an inner-core diplomat would be caught dead drinking and Piett approved. He took it and smiled. “Thank you.”

“You should not…” Vader paused, staring down into the tea as if it could impart some divine wisdom.  Piett raised an eyebrow but the dark lord was satisfied to be his ponderous self for a few moments.

“It is pointless to focus on the past,” he said. “What we have done, we have done.”

“I suppose that’s true,” Piett said, frowning. He was going to say something,  but Vader touched his knee, and the words died in his throat. “Were you…hurt?”

“…Nothing more than a discomfort, really.” Piett shrugged. It had hurt like hell but compared to being lit on fire as his lord has been, well, this was child’s play, really, wasn’t it? He picked up a datapad, wondering if anyone in the junior officer’s pool of what they did behind doors had picked up paperwork yet. “Were you able to retrieve the object, my lord?”

“Yes,” Vader said; he turned a datapad toward Piett and Piett saw an odd triangular object that glowed with an energy that Piett really, really didn’t want to touch. “Crimson Sun parted with it once they were …persuaded…to do so.”

“I had wondered how you came so fast,” Piett chuckled. “I — “

“I would have come regardless.” Vader levitated Piett’s cup back to the kitchenette in what was frankly the most gratuitous use of force powers he’d ever seen, but somehow, it was almost charming. “I…it…It would be hard to find another admiral so competent.”

Piett smiled, knowing full well what Vader’s words actually meant. He grabbed the dark lord’s hand and squeezed it. Vader’s gaze followed, and he felt a familiar heat in his cheeks.

“I’ll stay tonight,” he said softly. It would be a peace, of a kind. And that was as good as two boys from the outer rim could ever hope for, really. Just a bit of peace. They’d both killed for less.

If he was lucky, his sleep would at least be dreamless.


End file.
